


The Future's Up to Us

by dustlines



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Acts Like Endverse Castiel (Supernatural), Character Study, Episode: s05e04 The End, Fallen Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Friendship, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, References to Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2020-07-17 23:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19964743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustlines/pseuds/dustlines
Summary: Dean had thought he was over the twisted, "Endverse" vision of the future Zachariah had once shown him. An unexpected encounter makes him realize otherwise, and he and Cas have to calm each other down.Excerpt:Dean stammers, "I'm... I'm gonna fix your coat. It'll be fine. It's just mud. It'll come out. I know, because..." Dean's mind flashes back unwillingly to the countless hours spent soaking the same coat in various motel room sinks, not knowing exactly how to wash out the black blood of Leviathans and absolutely terrified that anything he tried was just going to destroy the fabric for good. He swallows painfully, adding in a weak voice, "I've washed it before. Are... are you feeling okay now?"





	The Future's Up to Us

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2013, and it's one of my personal favorites in terms of overall tone, atmosphere, and character revelations. I still re-read it occasionally, purely for my own enjoyment. I hope you'll like it, too! I feel there needs to be more out there that details some of the fallout of Dean coping with what he experienced in his visions of Endverse... and more than that, how _Cas_ deals with unknowingly having played a significant role there.
> 
> Takes place an unspecified time after season 8.

* * *

The truck stop bathroom is mildewy and damp, a chill slipping through Dean's muddy clothes as he fills his mouth with day old coffee. The hiss of rain and the grumble of far-off thunder is a constant from outside the building, raising the hairs on the back of Dean's neck, while below him, his foot won't stop jiggling against a loose tile on the floor. His heart is still pounding way too hard, which makes him think that caffeine probably isn't the best idea at the moment, but Sam had shoved the coffee into Dean's hand and told him to go sit with Cas, and so here Dean is.  
  
The bathroom stall nearest to him, its paint peeling and yellow from old smoke, creaks open, releasing Castiel into the world like he's about to announce a funeral. The fallen angel pauses when he sees Dean leaning against the wall, and then his jaw clenches in a way that makes Dean's gut lurch painfully.  
  
"Oh." Self-conscious, Cas' hand trails up the white cotton of his sleeve. He's not wearing anything on top of his dress shirt because Dean had hurled Cas' coat into a puddle after finding the bottle of painkillers in its front pocket. Without the coat, Cas looks smaller, his ever-shrinking weight as a human no small source of concern. Cas rubs his knuckles across his lips, which are slightly blue-tinged, and there's redness in his eyes from throwing up. Dean honestly hadn't known Cas could get that stressed out, much less because of something Dean had said to him. Or rather, in this case, because of something Dean had shouted at peak volume in the middle of a gas station parking lot.  
  
"Are you still angry?" Cas asks, while Dean simultaneously blurts out, "Cas, I'm so sorry."  
  
Cas only stares at him, as though caught off guard, and Dean honestly hadn't known that things were so unclear between them that Dean apologizing for being hurtful only leads to Castiel looking like he's about to be shot at.  
  
Cas is beginning to nod slowly when Dean stammers, "I'm... I'm gonna fix your coat. It'll be fine. It's just mud. It'll come out. I know, because..." Dean's mind flashes back unwillingly to the countless hours spent soaking the same coat in various motel room sinks, not knowing exactly how to wash out the black blood of Leviathans and absolutely terrified that anything he tried was just going to destroy the fabric for good. He swallows painfully, adding in a weak voice, "I've washed it before. Are... are you feeling okay now?"  
  
For several moments, all that can be heard is the rainstorm outside the building: the boom of thunder and the trickle of water flowing down from the gutters, rushing into the truck stop bathroom’s very foundation. Then Cas shuffles backwards, bracing his back against the partition between the bathroom's two stalls.  
  
"I have a headache." Cas says this while lowering his eyes to the grimy floor, like it's a personal failing he should have been able to prevent. "I've not been sleeping well. Sam gave me the pills to help me."  
  
"Yeah, um, he mentioned that... uh, after." Dean swallows, feeling his face swarm with heat as he looks to the side, at the cracked mirror above the bathroom's poorly mounted, rattling sink. In their cracked reflection, Dean and Cas look even farther apart than they actually are, only the hazy edge of Castiel's face visible in the mirror while Dean's body is fully there. Dean still looks angry, he notices, and so he shuts his eyes to breathe slowly and let his shoulders sink out of their defensive hunch. "I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. You didn't do anything wrong."  
  
Cas' arms cross over his chest, either to protect himself or to express defiance, Dean doesn't know.  
  
"I know that," Cas says, or rather, accuses. His eyes narrow, just slightly.  
  
And yes, Dean deserves the way Cas isn't giving him an inch here. He can only imagine how things must have seemed on Cas' side of the equation. Cas had been suffering, newly human and feeling sick after a long car ride with a headache, and then his best friend — seeing only visions of an unwanted future as Cas unexpectedly tipped a bottle of pills into his mouth to try to alleviate the pain — had screamed at him for it, torn off the coat that had housed the pills, but which also essentially functioned as a much-needed safety blanket for Cas, and then just short of slammed Cas and his shocked expression up against the Impala's side.  
  
Within seconds, Sam had barreled in-between them and shoved Dean off, landing Dean flat on his ass in the mud to be yelled at by his younger brother while Cas went pale and clutched the back of Sam's shirt. Dean can still feel the mud drying on the back of his pants, but so much worse than that is remembering the look of outright terror on Cas' face just before Sam's shoulder had hidden him from view. Cas had looked at Dean as though his entire world had shattered, never to be recovered, like something he'd been dreading for a long time had finally happened. Sam had sent Cas off to the bathroom across the lot, and Cas hadn't even questioned it. He'd just gone.  
  
Dean thinks that moment is going to haunt him for a long time. He wants to move closer, get on his knees, maybe even cry. He's been so happy to have Cas around lately that he hadn't even known he had it in him to explode at him like that, but the anger, unexpected and intense, had torn out of him like a punch. All he'd been able to see during that horrible moment was a future version of Cas who was drugged-up and letting Dean send him on a suicide mission because neither one of them cared enough about Cas' life to protect him, and all Dean had been able to think was, _no_. And then, before Dean knew what was happening, Cas had gone from smiling docilely at Dean's side, entertained by the rain, to staring wide-eyed up at Dean instead, Cas' back held up only by the metal car behind him and not knowing what he'd done wrong.  
  
"I understand I've done terrible things." Castiel takes one long, slow breath through his nose, letting it out as though trying to release all the anxiety Dean can see bundled in his shoulders. "But I still didn't deserve that."  
  
"I... yeah, you're completely right, you didn't. It's just, you were. Right beside me, you just—" Dean gestures with his free hand and the one holding his coffee, indicating the motions of taking a full bottle of pills and tipping it back into his throat. "But that's... I mean, it's not an excuse. I still shouldn't have freaked out on you, just because I thought... because I thought..."  
  
Cas tilts his head, squinting. "There were only two pills in the bottle. That is the recommended dosage. I was finishing what Sam gave me."  
  
Dean's entire body feels hot, despite the moisture in the air. The rain outside is constant and loud, condensation in the air making the tiled wall slick. He blinks a few times, trying to clear the way his vision is swimming. "I thought it was full. I thought you were gonna die."  
  
The second part, Dean hadn't really meant to say, and he has to stare at the floor for a few seconds to cope with the prickling of shock rushing over his shoulders. He realizes he very badly does not like saying that out loud, even though it's something he's begun to worry about constantly. Dean parts his lips, and what comes out as a laugh, he thinks was supposed to come out as something else, but the sound just got tangled up in his ribcage at some point on the way up. He rubs down his face with his hand, eyes shut as that wrong, _wrong_ laugh trickles shakily out of him and fades back into the hideous abyss it was born in.  
  
"Cas." Dean does not expect the way his voice tightens, making his voice come out as small and scared as he actually feels. Somehow, hearing the open vulnerability in his own voice scares him even more, and he feels his heartbeat slamming rapidly against his ribs. "Do you want me to leave?"  
  
Cas looks to the side, his eyes entirely too dark with underlying power for a man who had spent the last ten minutes unwillingly expelling the contents of his stomach into a rust-stained, roadside toilet in the middle of some nowhere town that hardly anyone cared about. After a moment of what looks like intense thought, Cas pushes away from the stall and walks towards the sinks, his shoes leaving a path of wet footsteps that evaporate slowly in his wake.  
  
"Dean, come here."  
  
Dean hesitates. Even in the bathroom mirror, cracked and covered in the webs of spiders and their dangling prey, Cas is not meeting Dean’s eyes, the former angel's shoulders hunched over as he washes his hands. Finally though, his gaze flickers over his shoulder to catch Dean's. The florescent lights above them flicker from the storm outside, but do not go out.  
  
"Dean," he repeats, a little more insistently, and the spell is broken.  
  
Dean puts his coffee down on the paper towel dispenser and comes closer, hands in his pockets. When he is beside Cas, perhaps a little more than an arm's length separating their bodies, Cas reaches over and muscles one of Dean's hands out of his pocket. Dean staggers closer to keep from falling over when Cas pulls him to the sink, their shoulders colliding together.  
  
"It took me a long time to believe you genuinely wanted my company, and not just as a way to alleviate your guilt." Cas dips Dean's hand under the rushing water, letting lukewarm, white foam rush between each of Dean's fingers. "It seemed to me it was important to you that I know that, and we've been able to trust each other as a result. Our relationship is, as far as I can tell, a mutually beneficial one." Before Cas can even ask for it, Dean offers his other hand, and Cas, with a nod, dips it under the rushing water. "We cannot senselessly attack each other. We're better than that."  
  
"I'm not ever going to—"  
  
"Good. Because I wouldn't tolerate it." Cas' tone is dismissive, and though he does not say so, Dean can read between the lines and realize that's not what's most important to Cas. "I want to know why you did it this time."  
  
"Yeah, okay, that's fair." Dean nods, looking down at the drips accumulating at the tips of his fingers as Cas deftly turns the faucet off with a squeak of protesting metal. "What's with the hands, Cas?"  
  
"Do you remember the way I looked when you first met me, in this vessel?"  
  
Dean furrows his brow, not really sure where this is going. He remembers a sensation like electricity gathering in the air, powerful magic sigils broken through like they were the Kindergarten crayon scribblings of a child. He remembers Cas blowing through the barn doors on a wave of sparks like a living firework going off, and he remembers the way stabbing the angel in the chest had sent a shock through Dean's body like he'd just been struck by a tuning fork and was vibrating in his very bones.  
  
Cas lowers his head, guiding Dean's wet hands into his hair. "I was admonished for the way I held my hair," he confesses, and Dean recognizes this for what it is: Cas attempting to trust Dean to move closer to him again. Cas continues, a wry smile on his lips as Dean's hands curl around short, soft strands of dark hair, "Evidently, it was an unnecessary expression of individuality. Do you remember it?"  
  
"It was... messier." Drawing from memory, Dean starts tugging on his friend's hair, lifting it in chunks against gravity until it resembles something closer to the way it had appeared before Cas adopted a more conservative, less wild style. Under the careful, gentle administrations, Cas lets his eyes slip shut and puts down a hand to lean on the cracked edge of the sink.  
  
"There were so many other things I was doing that Heaven disapproved of. After a while, it seemed an unnecessary battle to leave it the way it was."  
  
"This would be easier if we had hair gel." Dean's lowered voice echoes strangely in the tiled room, the downpour outside seeming like it's sealing them in. He keeps running his hands through Castiel's hair, lulled despite himself by the repetitive motions and feeling his pounding heart start to calm down. He wonders if Sam is annoyed by how long they're taking, and what he must be thinking. Dean's phone hasn't gone off, however, so he's trying not to think about it.  
  
"I didn't use hair gel," Cas murmurs back. "I used to play with it because I found it peculiar. Angels don't have hair."  
  
"Oh." Dean isn't sure it's the right time to laugh, but he does anyway, a helpless noise that bubbles out of his gut on a wave of mirth. The image of Castiel — at the time an unbearably stiff and formal individual — sitting on a park bench somewhere to spend time pulling at his hair in confusion is strangely endearing. Castiel's hair is suitably messy now, but Dean keeps tugging lightly at it, careful not to cause any pain to Cas' scalp. "You shouldn't have had to stop, if you liked it this way."  
  
"It's just hair." Though Cas' tone is flat, there is a spark of something wounded in his eyes. "It's material, and less important than other things. Both ways are suitable."  
  
"Yeah, but it's yours." Dean thinks even Cas must have picked up on the fact that Dean has finished rearranging his hair to the specifications Cas had mentioned, but is allowing the awareness to go unspoken so that Dean can continue trailing light fingers over his head. "You can do what you want with it now. Sam and I don't care."  
  
Castiel doesn't answer, just keeps his eyes closed and bobs slightly along with the motions of Dean's gentle massage. For a long time, neither Dean nor Cas say anything at all, until Cas swallows and says:  
  
"This is helping."  
  
Dean understands, abruptly, and wonders why he didn't think about it before. Too much fear blocking up his reasoning skills, he thinks. "Your headache?"  
  
"Yes." Cas' eyes slip open halfway, landing on Dean's face. "Why did you attack me? You've feared for my life before. This was different."  
  
Dean's back shivers, and though he feels tension seep coldly into his muscles, he is careful to keep his hands soft on Cas' head. "Do you remember when Zachariah sent me into that future in which Sam said 'yes' to Lucifer?" Castiel's silence is as good as confirmation, so Dean continues, with a soft hitch of breath that surprises even him. "You were really messed up there. You were strung out on drugs, and I — no, future me, I guess — well, I treated you really badly, like I didn't care what happened to you, and then we went on a mission to stop Sam, and you die—"  
  
Dean's throat tightens, and he can't talk for a moment. He exhales, feeling the shock of what had happened in that future as though it were happening now, even though the Cas in front of him is clear-eyed and still breathing. The panic remains in his chest, buzzing like a hive of bees, and he recoils vaguely backwards when Cas' hand lifts to touch his forehead with two light fingertips.  
  
"Dean." Lowering his hand, Cas looks at Dean with sadness, and they both remain quiet as the former angel mourns his ability to bring calm to someone with but a touch. Making an effort, Dean smiles shakily, trying to let him know he still can, and Cas' eyes warm in reply. "You had never mentioned this to me."  
  
Dean shrugs. "I didn't want to scare you away." He withdraws his hands from Cas' hair and leans his hip against the sink nearest him, while Cas, straight-backed, leans on his hand against the other sink. "I thought I'd caused it."  
  
Cas frowns. "As a manipulator, Zachariah was quite skilled. He knew how to prey on vulnerabilities, and likely knew you cared for me enough that—"  
  
"Cas, please," Dean waves a hand, though at what, he isn't sure, "I know." He lets his hand fall back to the sink, gripping the damp edge tightly. "It doesn't make it any less friggin' scary to remember you like that."  
  
Cas' frown only deepens, as though this knowledge is somehow unexpected and he needs a moment to absorb it. Dean gives him that moment, though a trace flicker of nervousness does go through his stomach as he awaits Cas' final analysis.  
  
When it arrives, it's not as scary as Dean thinks it could have been. Cas' shoulders straighten, and his jaw firms. He takes a step towards Dean and lifts his arms, making Dean have to fight off a smile at the absurdity of their lives. Without having to say anything, Dean pulls away from the sink he's leaning against and gives Cas the hug he's asking for. There are trickles of water falling from Cas' hair, mirroring the tapping of rain against the roof, and they tickle against Dean's cheek as he wraps his body tightly against Cas' and Cas does the same to his.  
  
Breathing in Cas' sweet, milk and honey-scented shampoo and the lingering, sour scent of sick hiding somewhere below that, Dean exhales over Cas' shoulder. "Are we okay, Cas?"  
  
Cas' arms squeeze, and this is the first time Dean realizes Cas can finally hold people as tightly as he wants to without worrying about crushing them, because the grip is so strong it takes away Dean's breath for a moment. Cas' arms relax after a second, and they both let out a relieved breath as they lean against each other.  
  
"Dean, you scared me." Cas' thumb travels over Dean's shoulder blade, holding him still. "You can't do that again."  
  
Dean nods, abruptly. His arms around Cas' waist are almost as tight as Cas' had been around his. "I won't."  
  
Cas nods, and his skin is warm as he leans down to gently press his forehead to Dean's shoulder, just before pulling back. "Then yes, we're okay."  
  
They separate, Cas looking composed and relieved, and Dean feeling like he's been woken up after not getting enough sleep. The world seems overly sharp somehow, the buzzing of florescent lights, the chill of rainfall, and the intensity of Cas' eye color suddenly striking Dean in vivid detail. Making himself look away from Cas, Dean clears his throat and then shuffles to retrieve his coffee from atop the paper towel dispenser.  
  
"Here." He presses the cup, which is still warm, into Cas' hand, and Cas looks down at it with raised eyebrows. "It's not very good, but it's probably better than what you're tasting now."  
  
Cas' eyebrows shrug, as if to agree, and he takes a steep sip. He has a pretty high tolerance for most foods, so he doesn't wince at the bitterness of the drink, only turns and heads for the door. "Thank you, Dean."  
  
"Wait a sec." Dean shrugs out of his jacket, holding it above his head and gesturing with his chin for Cas to come closer. The former angel does, settling himself at Dean's side and lifting an arm to help Dean hold up the jacket above them. The trust Cas has already decided to give back to Dean is humbling, in part because Dean is sure Cas believes he deserves it. "Okay, we're good. Let's go."  
  
The rain is even louder outside, a beating leveled against the weeds-strewn asphalt and the sleek lines of the Impala, which is parked a short distance away beneath the night sky. Syncing their footsteps, Dean and Cas run through darkness to get to the car.  
  
When Dean looks to his side, only a few steps left before they reach the Impala, he finds Cas' mouth set firmly, but his eyes gleaming as he gazes up at the downpour. His delight about the world is back, a full reset. Dean holds the jacket above Cas as the former angel jumps into the backseat. Once there, settled in beside his coat, Cas lifts his hands to dry and ruffle his own hair with a soft, happy breath that Dean only hears because he's so close to it.  
  
When Dean runs around and gets into the passenger seat, he can finally see Sam's soft smile.  
  
"Home?" his younger brother asks, while turning around to check on Cas. Apparently satisfied with what he finds, Sam turns back to Dean, eyebrows lifted.  
  
Dean, however, doesn't return the gaze, instead looks into the backseat where Cas is still tugging at his hair. "Yeah." The swish of wipers slashes through the rain, and the Impala purrs as Sam turns the engine. "Home is good." He sniffs, then turns his gaze to stare out the window to his right, keeping Sam from reading his face.  
  
Sam lifts a hand from the wheel and punches Dean lightly in the shoulder. "For god's sake, Dean." He chuckles, shaking his head but not commenting further, and Dean is grateful for it.  
  
They drive out of the parking lot, headlights bright against the empty road and tires hissing against wet pavement. In the backseat, Cas finds a safe space to keep his coffee from spilling and then settles in to sleep against the door, his eyes fluttering shut. His hair is going to dry at crazy angles, and Dean thinks he'll have to teach Cas later about the many cool ways he can style it.  
  
For now, as the rain rinses the dirt and grime of a thousand miles from the Impala's tires, Dean just taps out a song quietly on his thigh and has a pretty rare thought: that _maybe_ , just maybe, things have a chance to turn out okay after all.

  
.

  
2013.03.19

[.](https://dustlines.livejournal.com/10272.html)

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